Chapter 75: Case of the Disappearing Bas

Chapter 75: Case of the Disappearing Bas

Bourne Wood, Surrey UK. July 2012.

[“Could we get some wine, please?”

“Sure, I’d love some!”

“Sorry, Richard! This is Darcy—what are you doing here?” As Natalie Portman tried and failed to stop Kat Dennings from inserting herself into her date with him, Tom Felton couldn’t dredge up the motivation to complain about this sudden unexpected threesome he’d found himself in the middle of. 

In his perspective, sharing a dinner table with these two bombshells far surpassed his years munching sandwiches sandwiched between Crabbe and Goyle, that’s for bloody sure!

Putting on the flustered Brit act ala Richard, Tom watched Natalie portraying Dr. Jane Foster, and Kat as Darcy Lewis continue their expository bickering. “Is there a point to all this? Because there really needs to be a point to all this.”

“Yeah! You know that scientific equipment you don’t look at anymore? Might wanna start again.” A fancier version of a TI-86 calculator masquerading as a dimensional energy tracker was passed from one to the other.

“It’s malfunctioning.” And subsequently thumped on their table in a chorus of clattering crockery. 

“I thought you’d do something more scientific… Erik went all coo-coo bananas helping you read extra-dimensional energies, or whatever, to track him down—you know, your exb—!” 

Tom affected a polite but uncomfortable grin in stark contrast to the sharp ‘shut up’ shark toothed smile Natalie shot blabbering Kat. “—Not interested! I’m not interested!” Oh, but her character, Jane Foster, absolutely was. “You need to leave now.”

And oh, but Darcy wasn’t. “But I thought we were just about to order some wine?” She took a seat, leaned back into it, and snapped her fingers at an extra playing a waiter. “Garcon!” 

Tom let Richard’s mouth meet his spoon—mostly because the table obstructed his jaw falling to the floor. Jane Foster once again shoved her face back into her menu, pretending to be irritated instead of shy this time. “J—just ignore her, and order something…” 

“I think maybe we could try the sea bass?” 

Jane immediately jumped at his suggestion. “Sea bass sounds great! Sea bass, sea bass, sea bass, sea bass, sea bass… Sea. Bass.” But there wasn’t any missing her eyes floating over the fish in the sea (including him) and settling over the sci-fi contraption Darcy surreptitiously slid back into her view.

“… Erm, Jane? Seafood’s a horrid option; you already seem hooked on something—rather, someone—else. We’re probably finished here, don’t you agree?” 

She looked guilty, but the speed with which she snapped her menu shut indicated her true feelings. Even if it was acting according to script, witnessing a beautiful woman eager to escape your presence was a blow to the ego. “This was still so much fun, though, right?” 

“N—” Tom didn’t even reach the end of the single-syllable word before his supposed date grabbed her tech and raced out of the restaurant. “—o. I must not be her type in the least…” 

Then Tom turned his attention to Darcy, who for whatever reason hadn’t followed her colleague’s exodus. “You’ve got the general look–blonde and blue-eyed, but you’re missing the muscles. My doctor friend likes to be thrown around; but I wouldn’t mind taking you for a dip.” A little foreshadowing in the dialogue, because that was very much what would happen towards the end of the film when Tom and Kat pantomime some role-reversal passion. 

Tom shrugged. “Why not? Can’t be any worse than my last date, and I just so happen to have this reservation.” 

Darcy, however, denied the idea while pulling him out of his seat and tugging him along beside her. “Nah. Not my speed. How good are you with handling complicated astro-physics equipment?” A question for the audience whether she was speaking literally or referring metaphorically to herself.

“Well, I know my way around the office printer…”

“Eh, good enough.” ]

“Cut!” Alan Taylor’s, their director’s, expected call had a second woman hurry away from physical contact with him when Kat Dennings let go of their locked hands. “Let’s reset. I want another two takes for safety, but I believe we’ve secured our printed version.” 

“I guess that means I better break out the chapstick; the call sheet has us makin’ out for the next couple days non-stop, almost.” 

Given the conspicuous reaction he’d been getting from women as of late, Tom self-consciously cupped a palm in front of his mouth and puffed out a few test breaths to suss out any whiff of halitosis. “You’re surely not complaining, I hope. I don’t reek, do I?”

“Nah, chill. I’m not breaking your balls, just the ice. Romantic scenes are always awkward–even the funny ones, like ours.” Kat assuaged any of Tom’s fears. Truth be told, for all his years in cinema, he lacked any authentic experience in the amorous bent of things. “But the massive upside to it is that we get a whole lot more screen time because of it. Especially for you, yeah?”

In lieu of a hapless college student cropping up out of nowhere in the plot’s backseat, two roles were merged into his lone cameo. Tom got to be both comedic relief throughout the script, and a plot convenience when required. 

An undeniable fact. “Fair enough. I wish I could say I had any remorse for poor ‘Ian the intern’ from the initial drafts of the script, but if anyone’s bound to usurp his role in the film, may as well be me, yeah? Though, I suspect production decided with ulterior motives in mind rather than pure narrative efficiency.” A foot in the door had transformed into a full-legged split holding the entire gate wide open. 

Kat astutely parroted Natalie’s dialogue from the earlier scene. “Sea bass, sea bass, sea bass! Actually… speaking of, I don’t see Bas anywhere. I’ve heard so much about him from you, Idris, our director, even the stunt lead. Woulda been nice to put a face to the name, but he’s been, like, super evasive since we started filming. Just kinda pops in dressed in his full costume, goes all loony bad guy, then skips out as soon as the scenes are done. Totally different from how you guys described him during past projects. I was expecting raves, maybe a bonus cheque hidden in my trailer’s sock drawer, or at the very least a little hanky-panky, ya know?” 

Tom resisted the urge to clamp her lips shut. “Don’t let him hear you mention any of that, unless you’re unequivocally certain you’d want him to genuinely follow through. Because he’ll do any and all of it—trust me! Man’s a menace.”

“Fine, fine.” Tom struggled to believe that Kat drawing two pinched fingers across her pursed lips held any iota of truth behind it. “Well, I’ll get to meet him eventually when the three of us film our single shared scene together.”

Another role inversion, Tom reflected, this time with him and Bas instead of Kat. Where he gets to play the hero to Bas’ villain. An easter egg callback to Draco versus Harry, which had encouraged production to alter the screenplay. Ultimately resulting in the extended role he now had. 

Despite his noted absence, Bas’ insidious influence had momentum whether or not he was present. And from his complicit experiences during their youth on set, Tom knew better than anyone that an unseen Bas was a dangerous one.

…Maybe he ought to call him. Right at this moment. Just to check; not like there’s anything serious going on, right?

Reaching into his pocket, Tom scrolled to the appropriate contact and dialled Bas’ local UK number. “No, no. No point making you wait that long for a basic introduction. I’m forcing the issue right now.” 

Two-and-half rings were followed by the electronic click of an answer. 

“Who are you, and how did you get this number?” The strict tone on Tom’s other end was less questioning and more interrogative. He could pretend to be a stranger all he wanted; he bloody well knew it was Tom calling, and Tom himself needed no further confirmation than the ridiculous pickup that it was indeed Bas speaking to him. 

“I’m not even going to dignify any ‘who, what, and hows’ with a response. In fact, I’ll do you one better: where in the world are you? 

“Buckingham Palace.” Flippant, nonchalant, and a total load of bollocks in Tom’s opinion. Bas was losing his mischievous touch if that was the best lie he could conjure up. 

“Tell Lizzie I said hello, then. And that I’d very much like a knighthood at some point, if she can swing it.” The sword, Tom obviously meant; because his ripostes (particularly rivalling against Bas for once) were razor sharp.  

“Sure, hold on a mo’.” Bas’ usually boisterous register dulled into an abrupt whisper. Tom barely heard him over the rustle of fabric—as if Bas was holding the phone close to his chest—as well as the clack of a heavy doorknob being pushed down. “Pardon me, my friend is requesting a ‘Sir’ title. Would it be alright if I asked Her Majesty how I can slip him into her itinerary?”

A way over-the-top posh voice urgently responded. “Mr. Rhys, I must protest! No telecommunication devices are authorised within the Queen’s audience chamber. We have a strict protocol that absolutely must be adhered to with all decorum!” Tom scoffed at the Basil Fawlty impersonator pretending to lambast Bas. 

Still, Tom had to admit that even though Bas had lost their most recent bout of one-upmanship, he still maintained his boggling talent for roping-in bystanders into his spontaneous schemes. “Mate, stop faffing about, already! The lot of us who’ve met you before are being made into utter fools for talking you up to the rest of the cast. Seen neither hide nor hair of you these past weeks; poor first impressions, mate. Being derelict in your debauchery duties these days, aren’t you? You owe everyone a night out on the town at a minimum. So you seriously ought to show up and pay up—and bloody well soon at that!”

“I hear you, I hear you—but I really gotta get going; these people are sticklers! I’m busy for a reason. Swear I’ll make up for it, though. Um… I’ll have my Fedex sent out with door-to-door deliveries for each of you soon. Gotta run now, seeya!” 

–

Olympic Stadium, London. 27th July 2012.

“Ya know, I had my doubts. But now I’m really regretting not asking for a Bas Rhys-sponsored bonus.” Tom kneaded away the week-long headache Kat Dennings’ post-phone call pestering had caused. Her nagging substituted by an appreciative whistle at their new surroundings. “Your boy came in clutch, Tommy. This place is swank!” 

“Yeah, yeah, humble pie later.” Idris Elba and a smattering of the other cast and crew who got Bas’ invite barged through and beelined it straight to a fully stocked food station cum bar. “They’ve got actual meat pies and pints here, first.” 

Shuffling aside, their heads were on a swivel. Relatively pointless considering all eyes were constantly drawn towards the floor-to-ceiling glass panel that provided a pitch-wide view of the entire stadium grounds. “Where do we sit?”

“Wherever we want, apparently.” Because Bas, in his finite wisdom and infinite wallet, had rented one of the few private boxes in the newly inaugurated Olympic Stadium.

To watch the fucking opening ceremony for the London twenty-twelve Olympics. 

If it weren’t for the pricey soundproofing, the glass would likely be rattling with the roars of the crowds outside. “C’mon, if there’s one person who knows where Bas’ll be, it’s her.” Which meant the corner Tom pointed out to Kat was actually quiet, and fielded a familiar face. “Mrs Stephens! It’s been ages. How are you?”

“Tom! How wonderful to see you again. Bas said you’d be joining us. Sit, sit! The show’s about to start any minute.”

Pulling another seat out for Kat to slide into, Tom parked himself where Bas’ caretaker patted. “This is Kat, by the way. She’s more eager to meet Bas than anyone else , I’d reckon.”

“There’s less ham-fisted ways of prodding me for information, dear boy.” Why did he assume that the woman who raised Bas wouldn’t be as clever as him? “Now, hush! He’ll reveal himself before long, I’m certain.”

And with that, the opening ceremony got underway in a swell of applause and music. Tom did, however, catch an unexpected glimpse of Kenneth Brannagh. His foppish outfit for the day, not far removed from Gilderoy Lockhart’s, made it easy to spot him in the massive crowd of actors pouring in centre stage. Top hat, tailcoats, and tobacco while a choir of children singing in homage to the British industrial revolution surrounded him. “Oh—! Would you look at them? We sponsored several of the little ones being featured through the foundation. I’m so, so, so proud! Bas insisted that Hidden Gems contribute when JK Rowling got him involved.” Mrs. Stephens bragged as the segment ended in a shower of sparks raining down from the suspended set of Olympic rings.

But the fireworks didn’t stop there.

An instrumental of the national anthem blared through speakers as every screen in the stadium displayed a London taxi wheeling into Buckingham Palace. If that wasn’t British enough; Daniel Craig, or more accurately, James Bond strolled through the castle halls with the Queen’s two corgis piddling on either side of him. 

[James Bond was ushered into the iconic audience room where the UK’s reigning monarch received visiting dignitaries. “Good evening, Your Majesty.” 

The Queen—the bona fide article and not some stunt double—rose from her desk and addressed him. “Good evening, Mr. Bond. You both may now escort us to the games.” 

Bond’s confident smirk turned confused as the Queen walked past him. “Both?” 

“Protection from threats both mundane and magical.” Bond and the camera whirled around to show Bas, in complete Harry Potter regalia, lounging where the Prime Ministers customarily did. “Shall we?” 

In parallel with the scene that had preceded it, the Queen was flanked by her two fictional guard dogs as they ducked into a helicopter. B-roll of London’s sights culminated in a last shot of all three of them parachuting out live over the stadium.]

It took Tom until after the anthem finished and the next phase of the opening featuring JK Rowling reading an excerpt from Peter Pan as a bedtime tale to the audience to shake himself conscious. But just as he was getting his bearings, Bas popped up again. Leading the charge ahead of an army of Mary Poppinses against an enormous puppet Voldemort shooting pyrotechnics out of its wand. 

Tom didn’t stop clenching, paranoid that his mate would be around another proverbial corner, until Rowan Atkinson reprised Mr. Bean.

“Huh…” Tom hadn’t been struck dumb, even though it would’ve been entirely founded as the series of events had unfolded. 

“You think he actually asked after your knighthood?” Kat ribbed him with her elbow. God, Tom hoped not.

Then, a sudden clap on his back had Tom jumping in his chair and out of his trousers. Had he soiled himself in fright? God, Tom hoped not. “Unfortunately, not part of the permitted topics of conversation with her Royal Highness. You’re gonna have to put a TBD on that OBE.”

“So, your going MIA was all for naught, as far as I’m concerned.” 

Bas’ laughter merely underscored that he’d had a leg up in their rivalry all along. “Careful there, eh? I’m officially in MI6 now!” Blasted bloke couldn’t even allow him the dignity of beating him with their typical banter. 

Tom, quite honestly, didn’t want to see Bas anymore.